Words: 1,340 words

Warnings: Spoilers and slight shipping

A/N: First Book Thief fanfic! I'm sorry if it's not to your liking but… well, I had the idea in my head ever since I watched the movie. On an advertising note, if you're ever looking for a good book, consider the Book Thief. It is beautiful.

Hope you enjoy reading though!

Of one thing they both know:

Repercussions are forever.

It matters not how many years pass. Let minutes, days, years pass- nightmares are stronger than steel. The waves of time cannot ware them down, neither can acid of comfort and medicine corrode them to nothing.

For Max, it's concentration camps, it's the sight and smell of rotting flesh, it's broken bodies and spirits and it's himself, running away, condemning his family to most certain death.

She could tell. Behind the clean-shaven face and the tall, lanky figure, there is a man with swampy eyes and hair of feathers tossing and turning in bed. His pillow muffles the sobs and the pleas for forgiveness and for it all to just stop. Behind the man seemingly reborn anew, there is a man exhausted and haunted when morning comes, the memories of what's been lost forever engraved into his mind. A wound that never quite scars; always bleeding.

Two years. 730 days of living again, two years' worth of memories have already flown by and the nightmares are as bad as they're ever going to get. From one side of the bed, his shoulders are hunched over as he moans again. He doesn't even try to hide it this time. His back turned against her, she can see how he shudders once only to go back to trembling once more. Even in darkness, she can imagine how he clenches his jaw in resistance- he isn't a Jewish fist fighter for nothing.

Still, nightmares are formidable enemies. She scoots over to the other end of the bed. To where he fights and tentatively, she wraps her arms around his shivering figure. The scent of books and feathers fills her nose, but he's still shaking, still so cold.

"It's okay," she murmurs, her face burrowed into his back. Her grip tightens, two hands cupping his heart. "It's okay Max. You're home."

The words don't actually mean much. At least to her. But sometimes, words aren't meant to be taken literally. Sometimes, people need to dig deep, search for the deeper, more pure meaning. Such words only convey words of false comfort, even if he cannot hear them, but they're prayers. Wishes that one day he will be okay. That one day, the nightmares will flee and the war at home will finally end.

It is a naïve wish.

Sleep finally catches up to her. His scent is intoxicating, whether it lulls her to sleep or keeps her awake and steady well into the night. He's awake now; she doesn't need any indication. His breathing slows down and the trembling has finally died down, much to her relief. She feels a hand clasps over her own. No smile, but a very much thankful sigh.

The next morning, his arms are wrapped around her.

The battle was won- there was a truce, but the war is far from over.

For Liesel, it's decimated Himmel Street, it's Papa's accordion beneath the rubble, ruined so it will never sing again, it's tired and battered Max walking down the street with a gun pointed at his back, it's Papa and Mama's corpses, covered in a coat of dust and it's the dead body of the boy, whose hair was the color of lemons, whose lips were parted and dusty and in the midst of all of confusion and shock, whose lips she had kissed.

True love's kiss never brings fairytale endings.

Here's the thing about Liesel: she hardly moves, hardly makes a sound, when she sleeps. She's as frozen as a snowman- no tossing and turning and her hands never leave each other. If there were nightmares, Max would probably never even realize.

But the whimpers are more than enough to know. She doesn't sleep next to him for nothing. They sounding haunting to his ears- the people she cries for. The whispers that beg for Papa and Mama and Rudy to come back. To not leave like her own mother and brother had already done.

When he finally manages to rouse her from sleep, he decides it's worse in the aftermath.

Her breath quickens for a moment as she sits up, skin clammy, eyes frantically searching the room. He places a hand on her shoulder in assurance.

"Are you alright?" He whispers, in the darkness of the bedroom, once she calms down.

She doesn't respond at first.

"Liesel?"

Then there is a tentative nod.

Another thing about Liesel: she's mature for her age. She keeps a stony face after realizing it was nothing more than a nightmare.

It hurts to know that. Her soul is already old, too old- far past its ripe stage of 18 years. War is a fertilizer that speeds life on far too quickly in the passage of time.

He wonders often, in the years they were separated- "What happened to you? What did they do to you? What happened to the wordshaker who taught me how to live again?" Of course, the answer is obvious: she grew up. Plus, then she might turn the questions on him. He doesn't think he's ready to tell yet.

"They were there," she admits softly, "I saw them again."

His heart twinges as he watches her hands clench the blankets. Her chuckles are still bruised.

A sob. "They were leaving."

He doesn't need the lamp on the nightstand to know she's crying now. Silently, she lets the tears fall to the blanket before he sweeps her into his arms. Ushering her beneath the blankets, he can't fight off the blush on his cheeks since he's holding her against his chest much more intimately than he expected himself to and her hair, golden curls, encumber his sight. In the peek she takes, her eyes are piercing with questions.

"Max?"

"Go back to sleep," He murmurs, awkwardly. He relaxes though.

"…"

He can sense her apprehension; his grip tightens.

"I'll be here in the morning."

She's still reluctant, but for now, it's enough. She stifles a yawn, not before reaching her own arms around him, so they clutch his undershirt.

He kisses her on the forehead and intends to stay true to his promise.

(He does. It's the one thing that he, at the very least, can fulfill.)

Neither of them knows exactly how or when it started: sharing the same bed and all.

They're not lovers- no definitely not. The line might've blurred though; they won't realize that for a while.

But they do live together. Because they don't have anyone else. And what they also know: without the other, they might be, completely and utterly, alone. God knows, Death knows, they know that feeling of complete isolation.

The nightmares already give them enough of that.

Another thing they must now admit to. Another guilty confession: they're glad the other has nightmares. Not because they enjoy other's suffering. No, it's far from that.

They are just naturally selfish people, just like any other human being. Because just for a while, with the other there, they can escape their own plaguing nightmares for chasing the other's demons off with gentle words and kind touches that promise refuge. They know it's wrong to think that, but they do. It just is.

And of course, they can only support, protect for so long. Uneasy armistices do not stand forever. Soon they must go to war again and fend for themselves again.

And so they will, falling sleep to dive into the nightmares again. And with heavy hearts, they will rise again in the morning and relish in the comfort of the others' presence.

The years will pass- the scars will heal, perhaps fade into nothing. The war will drift further and further away with each day and Max and Liesel, they'll be happier, hearts a little lighter.

But they know better, in the deepest corners of their minds. Nightmares are not ephemeral. They may relent, but they will not go, without saying, in a whisper that will forever send chills down the Jewish Fist-Fighter and the Book Thief's spines:

"I'll be back."